Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (10 page)

      
"Why am I here, General?"  Steve knew this new information source was a big break for him, but he couldn't understand why Paz would divulge such information.  The General could be indicted.

       
Paz had trouble telling him.  He looked away as he spoke, "We are on the brink of a reelection year and--"

      
"The Massacre?  What really happened, General?" 

      
"What would you say if I told you that the Dixville Massacre was a tragic mistake, and that some of us in the military would like to set the record straight before the North Country starts their own revolt."

      
"Whose mistake?"

      
"As commander of the armed services, mine."  The General finally turned and looked squarely at Steve.  "I could live with the version of events the media tells, but I'm not about to see more civilians sacrificed up there to cover-up what happened.  It has to stop.  Intelligence has it that some of the Tobacco Boys have found their way up there and have built up a militia of over one hundred men.  We increased the number of battalions in the North Country, but it seems like every other day one of our troops is shot in the tri-state region.  We believe it's them.  They're the only ones with the skills to evade us like that.  Their cause has widespread support by the locals--and for good reason.  There's a lot of pissed-off civilians since the Dixville thing.  This is nothing like the Tobacco uprising that began with taxes.  These people lost their sons, nephews, and grandsons.  This has stirred up a bunch of folks and turned into a regional fight.  I don't want to see this country torn apart because of my screw-up.  Revenge can be a powerful motivator, especially when a bunch of kids were--well, accidentally murdered."  Steve was stunned.  He couldn't believe he was the only one hearing this.  He looked around to see who else was in the room.  Kyle went on, "What killed those kids was a MAN, a Multi-sensory Automated Neutralizer, designed to take down ground movement.  The troops call it AutoMan.  They weren't designed to take out targets below a certain weight.  Tanks and full-grown people with weapons, yes.  Not kids and wildlife."

      
"I've never heard of such a thing.  Why did you choose me to tell this to?"

      
"I believe Spectator News will follow-up on this story.  If this thing in the Northeast is going to end, it has to come out in the open."  The General began collecting his things to leave.  "I have another meeting."

      
"I'd like to find out as many details as possible before I publish."  Morrison chewed excitedly now.  He was the only reporter with a source like this. 
The story of the decade, and mine.
  "Winifred has a good relationship with the media.  If this is going to be a pissing match between the President and me, I want a full bladder.  Where can I find out more."

      
General Kyle Paz dropped a ten on the table to cover the drinks and tip.  "At the Dixville Massacre site you can see the physical evidence.  Hopefully, if they know you're coming, you won't get shot."

      
"Hopefully!  What do you mean by that?"

      
"They hate reporters up there."  With his hat tucked under his arm, Paz weaved between tables and chairs on his way to the exit.

      
After Paz had left, Steve pulled his computer out of his pocket and turned off dictation mode.  He had it all digitally.  He thought about how he could get into the Dixville area without the locals knowing he was a reporter.  He spoke to himself aloud, "'Hopefully I won't get shot' . . . Shit!" 

The Philbin's sugarhouse near Colebrook (December 6)

      
They hid in darker places of the night and spoke in whispers of sedition: of killing and injustice, of fairness--desperate people seeking retribution.  Vanessa Larson slurped and stared into her cup of coffee.  Helen paced across the floor, stopping occasionally to watch a sound she heard.  Harvey Madison stared at the door of the shack reciting articles of tolerance to himself.  Beyond the door, three dark figures walked on crunchy snow in the shadows of the pines.  They stopped at the edge of the clearing and waited for a cloud to pass in front of the moon.       

      
Mrs. Larson answered the door of the sugarhouse.  Three men dressed in white camouflage walked in and bunched up on the left side, kicking snow off their boots.  The tallest man named Tumult had a wiry look about him, hunched and slightly bow-legged, the posture of a toughened rodeo cowboy.  He stopped and stared at the three locals with disdain; they were not what he had expected. 

      
Tumult had always had a dark side, but what the Tobacco Tax had done to his mother and father gave him an excuse to kill.  He was a racist.  He was a Nazi.  And he despised anyone who defied him.

      
Snake, also with raven hair, shared the same physical characteristics but with black, plastic glasses.  He removed his glasses and cleaned off fog using the tail of his flannel shirt that extended below the white jacket.  His expression was less hardened than Tumult.  Snake was not only leader of one of the three militia forces, he was also the technician for his group.  He made it his job to keep up with technology for all three militias.  Snake and Tumult were brothers.  And in his mild-mannered way, Snake was the only one who could reason with Tumult.  This talent didn't make Snake less dangerous; he simply understood the power of manipulation.  Like Tumult, Snake was cunning, but he didn't share the extreme ideology.

      
Austere, the maple-sugaring shack consisted of open timbers on walls and ceilings.  Sixteen-penny nails driven into studs held web-covered sapping tools.  Thousands of feet of plastic tubing hung in coils from the walls.  A propane lantern hung from a coat hanger and cast tilted shadows of varied shapes with its yellow glow.  The latent sugaring shack still housed an overbearing evaporator that filled a third of the place.  Dry heat from the woodstove below the evaporating vats drew out the bitter scents from green, cherry logs that were corded beside the firebox.

      
The three Southerners looked about the room at Mrs. Larson, Helen, and the short plump Harvey Madison.  "Holy Jesus," Tumult finally said.  He broke his stare, looked down and sighed, "This is it?  This is your so-called Covenant.  I walked all this way for this?  Piss!"  He started putting his gloves on again.

      
"Hold it," whispered the third Southerner.  "We gotta hear 'em out," he whispered.  "We can't just go.  They could offer shelter and supplies."  Chaos was the youngest of the three.  His chiseled, gladiator build tapered to narrow hips.  Removing his coat, beneath his shirt he exposed bulging biceps with cords of muscles that rippled with each move.  His dark hair was cut short, giving him a cleaner, military look.  He didn't appear threatening at all, nodding and smiling when he entered.  Unlike the other two, Chaos joined the cause in the Carolinas out of principle: The Tobacco Tax had destroyed their family farm.  The three Covenant leaders noticed the difference: He was willing to talk.  Chaos turned to them, "Where's Max?"

      
"The Feds got him," Mrs. Larson spoke up.  "We're here in his place.  You got a problem with that?" 

      
"It's just that we expected Max," replied Chaos.

      
"Is this all ya got?" asked Snake.  His brother Tumult waited to hear the reply.

      
Vanessa  retaliated, "I got news for you dipsticks: Looks are deceiving.  I've killed a Fed in my day."  The comment sounded ridiculous coming from the obese woman.  Tumult smirked at the imagery her claim concocted. 

      
Helen didn't blink, maintaining her stalwart pose.  "According to Max, you said we share the same cause."

      
"Well, now, did I say that?  'Great liars are also great magicians,'" Tumult quoted Hitler as he turned and left.

      
Chaos and Snake hesitated to go.  A nagging question held Snake back, "How do you communicate without getting caught?"

      
"You haven't paid for that one, partner," said Vanessa coldly.  "I'm sure it's inferior to anything you've got."

      
Snake flipped her the bird and followed Tumult out the door.

      
Chaos spoke softly to the three Covenant members, "Let me talk to them.  I'll be right back."  He grabbed his coat and hat. 

      
Away from the shack, the two Southerners mumbled between themselves.  Tumult pulled out a small case of filterless, home-rolled cigarettes and lit up; his cradled hands blocked the wind.  He enjoyed the cigarette, squinting with each suck, holding the smoke in and pushing it out his nose and mouth. 

      
Chaos caught up with the two at the edge of the tree line.  Tumult wanted nothing to do with the ragtag locals, but Chaos saw their value in supplies and refuge.  "If you don't have the support of the people, you have no base; we need a haven."

      
"I don't deal with weenies and dykes, but if you think you can get something from them, you're welcome.  They might be good for something other than defecating, copulating, and procreating." Tumult turned and crunched off through the snow.

      
Snake held back.  "Just find out how they're talkin' to the Vermont Covenant.  We've got boys scattered everywhere in these parts with no secure way of talkin' to 'em."  Chaos nodded as Snake turned and followed Tumult.

      
"They're talking out there."  Helen peeked through the window like a conniving child.  She considered the Southerners the answer to Colebrook's struggle and the return of her brother Max; they were the ones with the skill and resolve to follow through with a fight.  Chaos seemed polite, a southern gentleman of sorts.  He was cute, better groomed than the others, with dark brown eyes capped by long lashes.

      
Harvey's voice was filled with disdain: "We're better off without that crew.  They have no loyalty to anything."

      
Helen pulled back from the window; she paused for a moment: "The third one's coming back."  She went over to open the door.  "Did your friends agree?" she asked, closing the door behind him.

      
"First of all, they're not my friends.  They're associates.  And Tumult thought it would be a good idea if I spoke with you myself.  Do you mind?"  Chaos gestured to sit down.  Helen shook her head yes as he took off his coat and draped it over a nail near the door.  He sat down at the table across from Harvey.  They looked at each other warily.

      
"Coffee?" asked Vanessa.  Her question broke the men's gaze.

      
He nodded yes.  "I'm Chaos.  I'm more of the tactician.  I also train the recruits in fighting and survival skills.  My politics are light-years away from the others, but I respect them for their ability to fight and elude the Feds.  You might view them as redneck lowlifes," he smiled, "but they're a force to reckon with."  Mrs. Larson handed him the coffee.  "Thank you, Ma'am.  You're very charmin'."  Chaos handed out compliments easily; he smiled at the sizable woman before sipping.  Then he paused to reflect before speaking, "There aren't as many of us now, but we're growing in numbers.  It's like the philosopher Dryden said long ago: 'Courage comes from hearts and not from numbers grows.'  We do share a common cause: freedom from oppressive government."  He sipped again.  "This coffee is absolutely delicious, ma'am.  You're so gracious."  He sipped again.  "At the end of the Tobacco Wars they had us cornered in Georgia's Oke bayou.  We took out two Feds for every one they got of ours, and they had topnotch equipment.  Tumult came up with the notion of usin' reed shafts as snorkels and crawlin' through swamps on our bellies to the river, and eventually out of there.  Twenty-six of us got out that way."  His story held the listeners spellbound.  He smiled, "We had leaches all over us."  Helen and Vanessa cringed.  Chaos laughed.  He put a hand on Mrs. Larson's knuckles, "I would show you the markings from it, but that would be inappropriate in the presence of ladies."

      
Harvey enjoyed the tale. It might have been true; they had gotten out of their predicament somehow.  But he could see the man's magic had less to do with 'tactics' and more to do with charm.  The Southerner didn't appear to be a bigot like the other two, but the strong southern drawl seemed to contradict racial and ethnic enlightenment.

      
They talked of the future throughout the evening: of Colebrook, of the country--their fate if the Feds chose to advance into the perimeter in force.  One thing was agreed: Winter was not a good time to force the soldiers out of Colebrook.  Chaos would arrange to keep his portion of the rebels in a more isolated region northeast of Dixville Notch.  In exchange for protection, the Colebrook Covenant would feed and outfit them.  The Covenant had a sizable amount of cash tucked away; donations to Dixville families were still pouring in from around the country.  Though not stipulated exactly, from the quantity of supplies he asked for, Helen got the impression his force alone numbered well beyond two hundred.  He wouldn't say.

      
"And my brother Max.  We need to get him out of a compound in Boston."  Helen's tone shifted to a regrettable pitch.